The Devil She Knows (12 page)

“I
will not remain in Constantinople!”

An hour later, Sidonie's declaration still resonated in Portia's ears. She rotated slowly in the middle of her hotel suite and wondered what on earth she'd do now. One hand held her arm while she rested her mouth against her knuckles.

“Where do you want to spend the night?” Gareth asked quietly. Only an old friend could have found the anger underlying the genuine concern in his voice. “You're free to change suites, since Sidonie did an excellent job of repacking before she fled to her cousin.”

“Yes, she was very glad to receive the first-class ticket home on the Orient Express,” Portia remarked. She trailed a finger over her evening gowns' trunk, so much alike yet so different from St. Arles's damnable trunk. All of her luggage had been made by Louis Vuitton and was monogrammed, even that abomination. The only obvious differences were the size and weight. She could tell it apart in an instant but who else?

St. Arles undoubtedly could.

“You should be on the same train,” Gareth said.

“No.” She barely uncoiled herself from her fist to speak clearly.

“Portia, somebody broke into your room to search your luggage, not steal your jewelry. I don't know why you're in danger but you're not safe here.”

What did safety for her mean if Mrs. Russell's, Maisie's, Winfield's, and Jenkins's lives were destroyed, together with all the other servants who'd fought for her in their own way?

The chill deep within her bones strengthened.

“I can't leave yet.”

“I'll hogtie you and put you on the damn train. You have my word on it, unless you tell me why I shouldn't.”

Her eyes flashed up to meet his. Determination waited within those silver eyes, harsh as the Arizona landscape.

“You could be killed,” she whispered, her voice softer than the wind whistling outside.

“I've risked my life before and will do so again.” He impatiently waved off any such concern. His eyes narrowed, turning colder. “But anyone who'd burden a woman like you with a secret worth killing for, warrants a hanging himself.”

She shook her head, an unwilling chuckle breaking loose somewhere deep in her belly. “Ah, Gareth, you do say the sweetest things when you know nothing at all about what's going on.”

He scowled and she patted him on the shoulder consolingly. Her hand lingered for a moment, startled by the sweep and strength of his muscles under the fine wool, the solidity of his bone, the straightness of his carriage. All offered to her service without asking for any recompense.

He put his hand over hers and kept it there for a moment, light as a warm woolen blanket against winter's last cold winds.

She stepped back reluctantly and hid her reaction to Gareth by a kick to St. Arles's abominable luggage. It thudded dully, like a monstrous barricade against her future.

“Nobody wants to hurt me. They only want the trunk St. Arles saddled me with.”

“Trunk?” Gareth frowned and squatted to examine it. Iron bands, lock—even the oak planks—received a freight master's exacting scrutiny. He ran his hands over it, examined scratches through a jeweler's loupe, confirmed the handles' strength by tugging it, and tested the wheels' smooth movement.

“A gentleman's small trunk, probably a courier,” he pronounced finally. “Approximately three and a half feet long, two feet wide, a foot and a half tall. Metalwork's been very freshly painted so any attempt to force or pick the lock can be easily seen. Damn—excuse me, very heavy for its size, although she's built to carry larger loads.”

“It could carry more?” Portia almost squeaked.

“Indeed. A fully loaded gun case would be the same size but weigh more, for example.” Gareth rose to his feet. “What did that brute tell you?”

“‘The Turks will think it's jollier than old Humpty Dumpty,'” she quoted.

“A bomb perhaps? But for who?”

“I think it's gold to trigger a revolution.”

“That would explain the
jolly
and
Humpty Dumpty
aspects of his explanation. But my gut doesn't agree.” He walked around the trunk again. “You take the Paris train tomorrow and I'll dispose of this.”

“You can't do that!”

“Why not? I've worked for Donovan & Sons for eighteen years and high-risk freight to high-risk places is our business. If I can't make something like this disappear, I deserve to be fired.”

“St. Arles—”

“By the time anybody figures out what happened, this piece of hogwash will be long gone.”

“He promised he'd fire all the servants who helped me throughout the divorce,” Portia said desperately, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. “They'll be put out on the street without references. They won't be able to find a job.”

“Hell and damnation! That miserable piece of Satan's spawn isn't worth sharpening a scalping knife for. Why, he should be…”

Portia wrapped her arms around him and hid her face against his chest.

He stilled, his heart thudding like a startled deer.

After a moment's hesitation, he clumsily put his arms around her and patted her back. “There, there now, honey, don't you worry. I'll make sure St. Arles can't harm any of your friends.”

“We could cable Uncle William's contacts in London and ask them to help.” She sniffled and tried to speak more clearly. “But that will take time.”

“Not too long.” Gareth thumped her again. “They'll be fine.”

“But he can dismiss them faster than we can help them. Plus, I'm surely being watched.” She craned her head back to look at Gareth. “Look at how easily those men found me.”

“Oh, hell.” The eager glow of securely offered sympathy vanished from his face, to be replaced by gnawing worry.

She tore herself out of his arms' distracting shelter.

“Isn't there someplace safe I can stay here in Constantinople until it's time for me to hand over the trunk to St. Arles?”

“Honey, you'd have to be watched over constantly. This is the best hotel in town yet you weren't safe here.”

“What about where you lodge?”

He shook his head promptly. “I don't have rooms at a hotel. I board with a family instead and I can't bring you home with me.”

“Why not? Would the trunk be stolen there?”

“Hardly.” He snorted, dark laughter curling across his face. “Even the most reckless thief wouldn't take on a senior member of the Almabayn.”

The dread organization whose mere mention had cowed the Customs Office? She frowned and tried to find another option.

“A British steamer leaves tomorrow morning for Athens.” Enthusiasm brightened Gareth's voice. “You'd be safer onboard her than a train since she can't be hijacked once at sea. I'll take the trunk and—”

“No, you will not!”

His clenched jaw warned her that her explanation needed to be very good.

“It's my responsibility and I won't yield it to you or anyone else.”

He propped his fist on his hip and glared at her. “Do you have another choice?”

“What if you told your friends I was your cousin?” She tried to think of a convincing lie.

“They're a very conservative Moslem family who generously let me stay among the unmarried men, in the
selamlik
. You'd have to reside in the harem where your luggage could be searched in an instant.”

“Surely they wouldn't…”

“Maybe not. But this town lives on spies and corruption. Bribe a servant with a few pounds and they'd find that trunk fast enough.”

“Oh.” She beat on the high mantelpiece with her palms, ignoring the elegant plasterwork and etched mirror above it.

“Honey, the only place you'll be safe is on the fastest train out of town.”

“No. St. Arles ruined my honor and I can't let him destroy my friends' honor, too, by saying they're worthless.”

Gareth went very quiet behind her, a murderous look in his eyes.

“Isn't there some way for a European man and woman to share quarters in a Moslem household?” She turned to face him, tired of fencing through a mirror. “That is, if you'd be willing to.”

“Share a suite to protect you? Yes, of course.”

Her heart thrilled at his emphatic willingness to look after her—until he went on.

“But it's impossible here, especially at Kerem Ali Pasha's house. Moslem sensibilities would never tolerate two unmarried people living together.”

Marriage, the focus of a thousand shattered dreams. She cast the images aside yet again with all their remembered pain.

“We could pretend—” she began.

“Impossible.” He grimaced. “He already knows I'm not wed, since it came up while I was carousing with his son. Plus, the spies would probably mention the lack of a local wedding.”

Marriage. What did she have to lose? She'd already been pilloried for her failures.

She might gain some memories of Gareth, to banish the nightmares of St. Arles with.

“Then why pretend?”

“What do you mean?” He shoved his hands onto his hips, forcing his jacket back from his broad shoulders, and glared at her.

“Will you marry me? Whether in a church or the embassy, I don't care, so long as it's legal and keeps me here in Constantinople.” Her mouth was drier than the Arizona desert and her heart was flinging itself into her throat like a frenzied jackrabbit.

“Are you insane?” His face went dark and he stormed away from her. “We'd have to share the same bed. Ottoman families prefer very small houses so they can see more of each other; we'd never pull off a platonic relationship.”

Her heartbeat kicked up its heels and cartwheeled through midair.

“Whatever you believe is necessary and are comfortable with,” she gasped. “Or will you offend your friend by showing up with a wife?”

“I doubt it, since he's always asking me when I'll find one. But I can send him a note, asking him to hold your luggage while we get married. If I know him, he'll invite us to stay with him rather than rent a house.”

“Good.” Perhaps his manners were the only reason he'd been so disturbed. If so, why wasn't her pulse settling down?

“I'm not St. Arles,” he stated clearly.

“Thank God.”

He looked at her then and his lips curved in what was almost a smile.

“I've never hurt a woman in my life, Portia. But I am only a man. You have to understand that if we're alone frequently together, sometimes I may think and act solely for our immediate pleasure.”

“Oh.” She carefully considered the warning in light of what Aunt Viola had taught her about men, rather than her stepmother's sayings. “Are you telling me that you'll frequently take advantage of me?”

“You're a beautiful woman and a charming one. Better men than I have been driven insane by lesser temptations.” He continued to keep his distance from her, his expression unreadable. “You should return to Paris.”

“No!” She could be intimate with Gareth, possibly often. It was everything she'd once dreamed of, no matter how much St. Arles had made her shudder away from a man's advances. “But I might disgust you.”

“What do you mean?” His brow furrowed.

She blushed and hung her head. She'd never considered discussing this with a man. Truly, she'd planned to never marry again.

“I don't enjoy being intimate with men,” she whispered, every word hard-won against the past seven years' habits.

Silence grew until the carriages rattling over the street outside seemed only inches away.

“Men?” Gareth inquired very gently. “Or St. Arles in particular?”

“Oh.” She stared at him, her heart thudding against her ribs. He hadn't moved, yet his eyes were blue-gray like sunlight breaking through fog.

“Oh,” she said again and reconsidered.

“St. Arles,” she pronounced and the nightmare seemed to fade slightly, thanks to being dragged into daylight.

Gareth growled something under his breath that made her eyes widen.

“Gareth?” she questioned.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he announced firmly. “We are both free to seek pleasure together, whenever you want.”

Pleasure? She eyed him dubiously. She'd found that alone, with her hand. But to do so with a man? When
she
wanted?

His lips quirked, reminding her how often she'd once dreamed of kissing him.

“Very well, let's get married,” she said, forcibly ignoring the silly blush heating her cheeks, and held out her hand to him.

“We have a bargain then.” He briskly shook hands with her. “I'll pay the bribes to get us a marriage license and we can be married tonight in Christ Church.”

“Tonight? Thank God.”

He gave her an encouraging nod, obviously reading her enthusiasm as a reaction to danger.

“Our bargain lasts for as long as you're in danger here on the edge of Asia. After that, I'll give you a quiet divorce or annulment, whatever will cause you the least scandal.”

Portia's jaw sagged toward the floor, closely followed by her wits.

A
short
marriage to Gareth? But that could be worse than her first marriage's hell.

“No children, of course,” Gareth added.

She nodded dumbly, unable to protest the loss of something she'd had next to no chance of gaining anyway.

She'd just lassoed the wind. Now all she had to do was survive the ride.

N
othing he'd ever done before had prepared Gareth Lowell for this moment. The shadows creeping across the church's gray stones from the memorials to dead soldiers didn't help steady him. Even the sun's last rays seemed to only highlight the altar's cross and white cloth.

As if he needed a reminder that ghosts watched him.

The white-frocked minister offered Gareth another encouraging glance. His little brown sparrow of a wife stood by with her hymnal, ready to witness the religious ceremony necessary under Turkish law. He'd already paid a Turkish clerk a year's pay to overlook the rules and give them the necessary license.

Shaking like a drunk at his first gunfight, Gareth tried again to swear the dreaded oath.

“I, Gareth, take thee, Portia, to be my wedded wife…”

He didn't deserve her. Didn't deserve any woman, but especially not her.

Ma, if you're anywhere near this earth, please help me now.

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse…”

Worse would come when Portia found out she'd tied herself to a fellow with dozens of dead men's blood dripping from his hands.

His fingers tightened convulsively around hers and she gave him an encouraging smile. She was more beautiful now, in her simple white traveling suit and white boater than she'd been in that fancy New York wedding.

“For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part…”

He didn't know anything about love but he'd give his life for her; was that enough?

“According to God's holy ordinance…”

He was vowing this in a church, to make it all right, tight, and legal with his conscience. That should do.

As long as they were married, he'd treat her right, go to church with her whenever she wanted, do all the polite things Pa had done for Ma.

But he'd set her free as soon as possible, so she could have a good man to end her days with. Somebody who didn't want to run and hide every time he caught sight of an altar.

“And thereto I plight thee my troth,” Gareth finished hoarsely.

The preacher's wife and curate heaved audible sighs of relief that he'd finally completed it on his third try.

Portia launched into her oath, her beautiful voice making music of the ancient words.

The preacher held out his hand and his assistant gently placed the slender circle of gold on his palm. For a moment, Ma's ring gleamed like an angel's halo before he handed it over.

It came smoothly into Gareth's hand and glided easily onto Portia's finger.

Maybe Ma was here today, to guide this wedding.

“With this ring…” His voice was very hoarse.

Ma had died with her left hand tucked under her. Gareth had never understood why he hadn't buried the ring with her nor sold it later for food.

At least not until now.

“I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

The simple gold band looked just right on Portia's finger, especially when she smiled up at him with tears dancing on her eyelashes.

He took her gently by the waist afterward, intending only to hug her. That would be the proper thing to do in a fine stone house of God like this one, with arches flying overhead and fancy windows making music out of light. Just something to reassure her that he cared for her first of all and wouldn't embarrass her, the way St. Arles had.

Portia stepped confidently up to him, the way she always had as a teenager in California.

Like a fool, his blood warmed and swept faster through his veins, until all he knew was how infinitely perfect it felt to stand here, in this holy place, in this circle of light, with Portia smiling up at him like her blue eyes opened every door to homecoming.

And when she fanned her hands over his sleeves like he was a rock to hold onto and tilted her head back for his kiss until her golden curls rippled and flowed over his mother's ring—well, his heart thumped like a circus band was beating time.

Portia Lowell. His wife, at least for the moment.

He kissed her lightly, warmly. Her lips hesitated, then opened cautiously under his like a young girl's who'd never been tasted before.

What the hell? Didn't she know this much at least of men, and joy?

He lingered on her mouth, taking his time to tease her into relaxing. Stroking her lips with his tongue, shaping his mouth to match hers, gently sharing his breath—anything to catch her interest.

Portia moaned softly, deep within her throat.

The preacher's wife coughed louder than any doorbell.

Gareth lifted his head with considerable reluctance but was delighted to leave a dazed look on Portia's face. For once in their relationship, he had the advantage of the better social mask.

There was no point in considering how much his hands were still shaking—or how hard his cock was. He'd survive his wedding night somehow, no matter what happened.

 

The caique, a fancy cousin to the gondola, plowed its way across the Bosporus toward the distant Asian shore, its small steam engine humming briskly amidships. Daylight's balmy skies had given way to a crisp evening breeze and the waves constantly jostled the hull. Sparkling lights to the rear outlined Constantinople's ancient bulk, while fizzing sparks trailed like fireflies from the boat's smokestack.

The shore ahead was filled with rolling hills, marked by only a few lights against the moonlit sky. Except for the engine chugging below decks, this could have been an ancient Greek boat sailing these seas for the first time.

Portia linked her fingers more tightly with Gareth's and leaned her head against his shoulder, grateful for the loan of his jacket. Sitting on a bench in the stern might be the place of honor but it also attracted every chilly wind.

“Only a few minutes more, honey. We're almost there.” He gave her hand a quick, comforting squeeze.

Hope for something more than their old friendship stirred inside her heart, dispelling second thoughts.

“Are you certain Kerem Ali Pasha will welcome me?” She couldn't bring herself to ask how long Gareth would accept their marriage.

Her trunks seemed to weigh down the boat like a guilty conscience from below decks. Like any good Donovan & Sons freighter, Gareth had produced a handful of sturdy men to transfer her luggage from the hotel and stand guard over it during their wedding.

“His note said so, didn't it?” Gareth kissed her fingers then rubbed her hand lightly to bring warmth back into it.

Her free hand lifted instinctively toward him but he spoke again, dispelling the magic.

“See those lights dead ahead? Where the dock cuts into the water?”

Her arm dropped back to her side and she answered him as practically as possible. What did it matter if she was clumsy at showing affection? He'd always liked conversing with her.

“But those are long windows with the rooms fully lit inside.” She leaned forward. “The house looks like a lantern swinging over the water.”

“It's Kerem Ali Pasha's
yali
, a seaside mansion with a boathouse built into it underneath.”

“So many windows must allow inhabitants to enjoy the view—or catch the sea breeze.”

“Exactly. It's been so hot he brought his family out here very early in the season.” Gareth lowered his voice. “It's isolated enough you'll be safe.”

The hair lifted on her neck and she nodded quickly.

“It's almost a fairy castle,” she said wistfully, disliking the need to sully its delicate beauty with St. Arles's abomination.

“It is also pink,” Gareth commented.

She gaped at him, searching that stalwart profile for any sign of mockery.

“And ornately carved,” he added.

“You're joking,” she pronounced with complete conviction.

“Not at all.”

She made a burbling sound of disbelief but couldn't bring herself to express it more explicitly.

“Kerem Ali Pasha also has a scarlet silk tent, which he erects in his garden for parties.”

Now that statement rang with the same simplicity which he'd use to discuss how to pack a mule for high-country freighting, or her stepmother Albinia would describe the menu at a successful dinner party.

Hope began to sift into her bones. “Does he decorate it with lanterns?” she asked.

“And flowers. The entire family is famous for their gardens—and love of literature.”

She sighed happily.

“One door opens to the sea, the other to the gardens. One side of the house opens to the harem, the other to the selamlik.”

“Rooms for the single young men?” Portia remembered what she'd heard of other Moslem customs.

“Yes.”

Were there people standing out on the dock?

“Your trunks will probably be stored in the other half of the boathouse, under the house. If we're given the guest suite in the harem, we may be able to put them in the dressing room.” His voice was low and rather rough.

She glanced up at him then nodded tightly. This wasn't the time or the place to argue, no matter how much she wanted to jump to her feet and look for herself.

Or did she want to stand up so she could hurl herself at the ever-polite Gareth?

She bit her lip, her heart's answer making her even more intensely nervous.

The helmsman cut the engine and the boat glided smoothly against the dock. Torches blazed at the ends, allowing glimpses of a fine garden with a massive tent erected inside.

Even the desperate tightening of her stomach couldn't stop Portia from craning her neck to see more.

Two liveried servants quickly secured the tidy craft.

“Lowell, my friend!” A slender man, clad in a long, elegant black coat and red fez, almost quivered atop the wharf like a gray wolf eager to greet his family. Two younger men flanked him, clearly his sons judging by their joint likeness to finely honed swords.

“You should have told me sooner what you planned. We would have made you the most splendid abduction of a bride ever seen in Constantinople!” He reached out a startlingly tanned hand and lifted Gareth onto the dock in a single easy leap. Clearly, these two had long since discarded civilized tricks such as steps. The Turk embraced the much taller American enthusiastically and kissed him on both cheeks, a salute that Gareth returned with a smile.

Portia pressed her hand to her mouth, unable to truly relax despite the welcome. Would they freely offer sanctuary if they knew the threat she brought?

“If you had the chance to seize the perfect woman, Kerem Ali Pasha, would you hesitate?” Gareth inquired.

“No, never! I too would have carried off such a pearl, especially after she was threatened by barbarians. She is the one who was tied up and whose luggage was searched, yes?”

“Very much so.”

“Appalling.” The patriarch's two sons muttered something unprintable in Turkish which earned a stern glare from their sire.

Gareth's grin grew wider and he gallantly brought Portia out of the caïque to join him on the dock. He brought her hand formally onto his arm so that they stood facing his friend.

“May I introduce my lady wife to you? Kerem Ali Pasha, this is Portia Townsend Lowell, my patron's niece and adopted daughter.”

The great man studied her as if uncertain how to greet her.

She started to don a polite diplomatic smile then shook it off. No, she needed to be warm. This wasn't St. Arles's circle where knives were only inches from the surface, whether forged in steel or carved in poisonous tongues. These were Gareth's friends and she wanted him to stay close to them.

She smiled a little shyly, uncertain what expression to wear, and moved closer to Gareth.

The patriarch's expression softened and approval flashed through his eyes under the torchlight.

“Ah, you did not mention her lineage before, my friend. Indeed, you are fortunate among men to ally yourself with such a noble family.” He bowed to Portia with a distinctly Gallic flourish. “Peace be upon you, dear lady. I beg that you will forgive my city for the attack you suffered and not allow those ruffians to poison your opinion of us. Pray consider my home to be yours. I swear you will be safe here.”

“Thank you, sir.” She gave him a curtsy, his exuberant welcome smoothing some of her worries.

“Lowell, I know your family is far from here.” Their host returned his attention to Gareth, with an air of polite finality as if she needed time to recover from the journey. “Will you allow me to give you at least a little of the celebration your father would, on this happy occasion?”

Gareth frowned.

“It might also distract your lady from this afternoon's alarms. A simple affair, rather than the forty days we gave my son or the three days even the simplest villager enjoys.”

“Three days?” Portia queried. That would be a very long party, far more than anything her stepmother had ever dominated.

“Yes, indeed, there are many traditions to ensure both bride and groom are welcomed into each other's family. But since you are Americans and therefore probably already know each other's clans, my mother believes you will be content with the banquet traditionally held on the third day.”

Portia slipped her arm through Gareth's, too curious to remain still. Perhaps someday she'd learn about Gareth's family, of course. But she wouldn't ask here and now. She would have to be satisfied by discovering more about these unusual traditions.

Gareth glanced down at her. “Would you mind?” he asked in English.

“Will it be embarrassing?” Heaven forbid it include anything humiliating.

“No, certainly not, especially from Kerem Ali Pasha's family. But it won't resemble your previous wedding.”

“Then—yes, please,” she said emphatically. Anything to erase the memory of that awful banquet would be a blessing—the endless toasts while her face stiffened into a smile born of dread and Uncle William looked more and more as if he couldn't decide whether to murder her husband or her father first. And the horrific night afterward with St. Arles…